The sheriff was thinking, his hands crossed upon his rotund stomach and his bowed legs as near crossed as they could ever be without an operation.  He was pretty well satisfied that the man upstairs, who that pretty little nurse had said would be down in a few minutes, had not killed Sam Brent.  He had a few pertinent reasons for this conclusion.  First, Brent had been killed by a thirty-caliber, soft-nosed bullet, which the sheriff had in his vest-pocket.  Then, from what he had been told, he judged that the man who actually killed Brent would not have remained in plain sight in the lodging-house window while his companion made his get-away.  This act alone seemed to indicate that of the two the man who had escaped was in the greater danger if apprehended, and that young Annersley had generously offered to cover his retreat so far as possible.  Then, from the lodging-house keeper’s description of the other man, Jim Owen concluded that he was either Ed Brevoort or Slim Harper, both of whom were known to have been riding for the Olla.  And the sheriff knew something of Brevoort’s record.

Incidentally Sheriff Owen also looked up Pete’s record.  He determined to get Pete’s story and compare it with what the newspapers said and see how close this combined evidence came to his own theory of the killing of Brent.  He was mentally piecing together possibilities and probabilities, and the exact evidence he had, when Pete walked into the reception-room.

“Have a chair,” said Sheriff Owen.  “I got one.”

“I’m Pete Annersley,” said Pete.  “Did you want to see me?”

“Thought I’d call and introduce myself.  I’m Jim Owen to my friends.  I’m sheriff of Sanborn County to others.”

“All right, Mr. Owen,” said Pete, smiling in spite of himself.

“That’s the idea—­only make it Jim.  Did you ever use one of these?” And suddenly Sheriff Owen had a Luger automatic in his hand.  Pete wondered that a man as fat as the little sheriff could pull a gun so quickly.

“Why—­no.  I ain’t got no use for one of them doggone stutterin’ smoke-wagons.”

“Here, too,” said Owen, slipping the Luger back into his pocket.  “Never shot one of ’em in my life.  Ever try one?”

“I—­” Pete caught himself on the verge of saying that he had tried Ed Brevoort’s Luger once.  He realized in a flash how close the sheriff had come to trapping him.  “I never took to them automatics,” he asserted lamely.

Pete had dodged the question.  On the face of it this looked as though Pete might have been trying to shield himself by disclaiming any knowledge of that kind of weapon.  But Owen knew the type of man he was talking to—­knew that he would shield a companion even more quickly than he would shield himself.

“Sam Brent was killed by a bullet from a Luger,” stated Owen.

Pete’s face expressed just the faintest shade of relief, but he said nothing.